


Heisenberg

by Pie (potteresque_ire)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Financier Draco Malfoy, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 21:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6924718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potteresque_ire/pseuds/Pie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every kill by Auror Harry Potter promises a night of debauchery for Draco Malfoy. Tonight, Draco waits again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heisenberg

**Author's Note:**

> Created for wand-in-a-knot, a 24-hour porn writing challenge hosted on LiveJournal in May 2016. So yes, this is a thinly veiled PWP.

Astoria has perfected her Muggle secretary look. The V of her shirt sits just low enough for her lace bra to make an occasional appearance, the hem of her pencil skirt just high enough for it to meet the welt of her stockings as she she shifts on Draco’s lap. Her silk thong is just soft enough, flimsy enough for Draco to push it aside with one finger.

She has the grace to respond with a gasp, her eyes still trained on the portfolio.

“Fawley made a request to move his funds from Gringotts to the Chinese commodities market. Wants to do it though his BVI account…”

Daedalus Fawley. Trader of Magical Antiques, a.k.a. Dark Artifact Smuggler. He who demands an update of his wealth to the Knut (so that he can publicize it) every single day. He who spits when he talks and pokes his wand at Draco when he doesn’t get what he wants, like Draco _works_ for him, like his commission isn’t meager compared to Draco’s other clients.

Oh, to see a character like him AK’ed by egg and soybean futures…Draco smirks and draws a perfect circle on the clit. He’s done playing with the labia folds, where it is bone dry and Draco would rather play with things that don’t catch on his skin.

Astoria gets wet, Draco knows. She was practically dripping the day the FTSE crashed, when the same desk in front of them was littered with paper aeroplanes and howlers begging, pleading, threatening them to _SELL, SELL, SELL_ and _BUY, BUY, BUY_. She got on her knees and begged Draco to fuck her from behind. Later, they answered the requests in the order of how much come and lube they'd soaked in. The earnings of Salazar’s Brokerage from that week alone was more than their usual quarter’s.

Draco's finger-sketch is making grounds. Astoria is starting to feel slippery down there. He directs his fingers down between the folds again and pushes one inside.

Astoria shifts. Draco would have got a sprain if he didn't turn his wrist fast enough. “Are you listening?” She swats him lightly with the portfolio. “Should we advise Fawley to wait until the Panama investigations cool off?”

Draco shrugs as he ventures in further. “He plays in the Muggle market. Play with fire, get burned. Just don't drag us with him when he goes down.” He crooks his finger upward. Ah, there they are, the ridges. He massages them in firm strokes.

The effort pays off. Astoria drops the portfolio on the carpet and circles her arms around Draco’s neck. "What’s wrong with you today?”

From how wide she has spread her thighs and how deep she is riding on Draco’s hand, nothing. Draco licks her lips with his tongue. “What kind of a question is that?" He breathes into her _I’m but a sexual creature_ and recruits two more fingers for his task below. The dryness he has fixed, the looseness ... no amount of Draco’s in the world can fix that.

Astoria’s laugh is throaty, from too much Muggle fags and blowjobs for strangers in the washrooms.

“It’s a cunt there.” She smiles and gives Draco's tongue a soft bite. “In case you forgot”. She kisses him as she lifts herself up and detaches from Draco, eliciting a moan as she does so. She smooths her skirt between them and leans back against the desk, reaches behind to find the rolled-up issue of today's _Prophet_.

“Let me guess.” She eyes Draco, the crotch of Draco’s trousers in particular. “Someone’s but a creature in heat.” She unfurls the paper, scans the headline and declares in triumph:

“Heisenberg is coming tonight.”

~*~

The place is deserted. The corridors have been _Noxed_. Draco rests his legs on the desk and stretches in his armchair, his lit wand for lone company.

He’ll come by the Floo. Heisenberg, that is. Why he doesn’t Apparate and how he knows about this unconnected fireplace is anybody’s guess. But Draco is not about to question a Head Auror, especially not one who gives such good heads.

What will he offer Draco tonight? Draco pushes aside the curled edge of the _Prophet_ to search for clues again. The headline is two words—“Hero Again”—and below it was a photo large enough to cover the rest of the page. Harry Potter was behind the podium, looking grim. The caption said, “Head Auror Harry Potter spoke to the press briefly after the raid. He expressed gratitude to an anonymous informant named _Leftie_ , who provided information vital to the success of the raid.”

 _Leftie_. Such a Muggle, plebian name. Draco snickers. He already skimmed the news this morning, the same old dreck about child trafficking, Dark Artifacts, neo Death Eaters. Only one piece of information matters to him—one that decides how his night is going to be, one that really should be in the headline. Sure, it would make "Murderer Again" more appropriate, but then Draco doesn’t have to scour.

Like this morning, Draco has to count for himself: one who attempted to flee with a child, one in the duel at the crime scene, one at St. Mungo’s. One plus one plus one equals three.

Three lives perished under Potter’s wand last night.

Draco lifts his fingers and let the paper roll back onto itself. The Fates are cruel jokers and Draco adores them for that. Adores them to tiny little pieces, oh, like the _dust_ that must be settling all over Harry Potter’s wounded soul right now. Didn't Potter pound that much understanding into Draco the last time they met? That men who murder for good are still murderers?

And souls that murder for good are still damaged goods?

So Potter fires the fatal spells when they're needed, having lost his virginity on that front more than a year ago. Good ole Potter, Hero Again, putting his soul out there to be chafed and scratched just so his cronies can keep theirs whole. Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy has not only kept his soul intact—no known correlation exists between driving financial doom and a soul’s well-being—he has also become the beneficiary of Harry’s soul dust.

He volunteered. The exact how and why was lost in the haze of alcohol. They were at a Ministry function, sponsored by Galleons made and laundered through Draco’s brokerage. Draco had his sleeves rolled up as usual—the Dark Mark, as it turned out, was great advertising for his trade,—and an Auror, predictably, had a problem with that. They exchanged words, increasingly heated. Then they found a backroom. Then heat spread all over Draco’s body like the Firewhiskey in his head.

 _When you’re tired of being a goody two-shoes, Saint Potter, …_ he might have said, then,

 _…come_.

He didn't expect Potter to take his offer. It was an evening just like this –- lights out, Draco in his office alone. It was a busy week, so busy that Draco fell asleep in a pile of parchment. The day’s _Prophet_ was still rolled in its owl mail form in front of the abandoned Floo. It went up in flames when Potter showed up.

Draco was at risk of the same fate as the paper fifteen minutes later, when he felt the tingle of Potter’s tongue testing a lick on his glans. All Potter said, for a belated introduction, was “Who’s the goody two-shoes now?”, and he said it in a hoarse whisper, his lips gleaming with Draco’s pre-come. Draco was standing with his legs spread and arse bare, wanking to the sight of a uniformed Auror with carpet pilling on his knees and a taut bulge between his thighs.

Potter had not let Draco touch him. He must have cast too a spell on Draco, an invisible _Incarcerous_ of sort that wouldn't let Draco come. When Draco couldn't stand it anymore and went on the offensive, he only managed to trip on his own trousers. That was when Potter took pity on him. He knelt down again, thighs spread, and guided Draco's palm to feel that swell under the dragonhide trousers. Potter let out a sigh as Draco spread his fingers and kneaded, once, twice... and some part of Potter broke at that moment, for the invisible chains dissipated and Draco was coming, coming, on the spot where he shook hands with clients for a financial mischief well played.

“Thank you,” Potter whispered, while Draco panted into the Dark Mark on his forearm. His small smile was innocent and sad as a schoolboy denied his a sweet. Then he was gone.

Draco would found out later that just before dawn that day, Harry Potter had spelled a _Levicorpus_ , a weakling’s spell by all means, on a wanted murderer. Too bad her brain hemorrhaged and she died within minutes. She was Potter’s first.

So, hours later, Draco became Potter's another first.

Draco _Accio_ s his bottle of cognac from the cabinet. He’s addicted to the stuff these days, thanks to Astoria and her fraternizing with Muggles. The hour needle on the wall clock points at ten.

Can today be the day Potter gets used to killing?

No. Good Ole Potter doesn’t and will never have it in him.

Draco finds the button and zip of his wool trousers with one hand. With his other, he pours a drink, and proceeds to feather the iced tumbler against the length of his cock. He has forsaken underwear since he read the news over lunch. His bulge is nowhere as full and round as Potter’s and he’s never keen on losing to Potter. Not even on something like this. And Draco has other assets Potter cannot match. His length, for example, and his hue that is the envy even of most virgin of wizards or witches. Potter admitted so himself.

Draco picks out an ice cube from the tumbler and watches it melt as he runs it up and down his shaft. When did that happen? Maybe Potter’s third visit, or fourth? By that time, Potter must have had gained a taste for firing lethal spells that were explicitly discouraged in the Auror rulebook. True, whoever thinks Potter would abide with something with “rules” and “book” in its name is the textbook definition of an idiot, but Draco knew it was more than Potter’s recklessness that drew him to these spells. No, he knew Potter was upping his game to impress Draco. He just _knew_ , because that night, Potter stood in his office naked for the first time. That was the few second before Draco pushed him against the wall, lifted his thigh to lock Potter in position and rubbed his cock against the balls and cock he’s dreamt of seeing and touching since their first encounter. One sharp intake of breath was all Potter let out—or in—when Draco wrapped his palm against their two cocks and rubbed them with enough intensity to ignite. Draco’s length advantage was apparent then and he breathed his victory into Potter’s ear. Potter laughed, guttural and deep, and answered that while that was true and Draco’s was pink like a newborn, Draco simply lacked balls like his own. Draco stiffened, for one moment, and that was when Potter turned his head and crashed his lips on his.

And so Draco lost his rhythm and his footing. And so Potter found the opportunity to flip them around and like the goody two-shoes Auror that he was, held Draco’s arms above his head. “Wanna keep rubbing? Or…” he asked—and Draco to this day wants to know what he was about to give—but it was too late and Draco’s come was slithering down his thigh, down and down until it pooled on the uncarpeted corner of the office. Potter chuckled again, carried Draco like a Muggle princess and lay him down on the carpet. He then weaved his own carpet of kisses on Draco’s torso, soft trails of moisture anchored by sharp bites here and there.

When he left, he left with yet another unresolved erection in his trousers.

Draco squints to look across the office. That spot of wooden flooring has a special shine on it, even in the darkness. Astoria cried foul the first time he made this claim. Draco was boasting he could come enough to make floor wax and she argued the evidence before her suggested otherwise. Draco was losing visual acuity, she teased with both her words and the toy in her hand, and would soon need to share spectacles with Heisenberg who's blind without them.

How pathetically wrong she was. For one, she should know better than shoving an anal plug so small, so smooth inside Draco.

The cognac on Draco's tongue is losing its taste. On the rocks is always a mistake in hindsight. He unbuttons his shirt—the weather charm wears out at 10:30 sharp--and tips the remaining content in the tumbler on his abdomen. It smooths out the fine trail of hair he has there, disperses in drops as it gets lost in the curled hair below.

And two, Potter without his glasses was even more precise. Brutally precise.

That night... Draco wraps his hand around his cock and caresses it root to crown, re-acquainting himself to its every detail: the feel of his skin, the rise and branching of his veins, the swell at the base of his glans and that shallow valley that broke the crown underneath. He knows it well of course, but to achieve Potter’s brutal precision that night, he needs to know it by senses alone—for if he gets it right everything else will be out the proverbial window.

Potter showed Draco how to do it when his count rose to two.

This time, Potter was in Muggle attire: t-shirt and jeans that actually could give his Auror issue a run for Galleons. He’d made a detour to St. Mungo’s himself after the raid and was loaded up with healing potions. _I’ve got nothing to offer today_ were his first words after he Flooed in.

Filthy liar.

Two hours later, Draco was threatening—yes, like his clients in Autumn 2008—, pleading and begging Potter to let him come. Potter was on his knees again, as he so often was in these visits, his t-shirt and jeans still on but his glasses Banished by Draco early on in a fit of uncontrolled magic. Draco was tied to his office chair, his arms bound to the back, and his waist and hips were thrusting haplessly into the air. Potter watched him, green eyes bright as always with seeming naïveté, hands on the armrests in seeming eagerness to support. Again, all blatant lies. For at that one moment Draco managed to control the fire within, those innocent eyes would catch it and those helping hands would be on his cock and balls once more, stroking, twisting, hitting, doing everything to fan the flames again. He had allowed Draco to come exactly once, exactly one hour after they'd started as Draco had been promised.

That string of come, when it finally escaped, hit so high that it’d clung on Potter’s Adams apple. How it became the white crust on Potter’s grey neck line, Draco's mind was too far gone to register, distracted—tortured—by those perfect circles Potter kept tracing on the glans of Draco’s cock.

Draco only sketched the circles on Astoria this afternoon. The perfect ones he reserves for himself, for now. Draco is proud though of the one touch he's brought to this, the one touch he can claim as his own: his hands are kept free from pre-come because rough skin-on-skin makes edging that much more interesting, and because they're far better imitation of Potter's chapped, callused hands. Those hands that, even when they tried to soothe the softening cock, only made it hard again, that couldn't sate Draco until they entered him and pushed on where it made Draco howl...

Draco forces his hands away. His cock jerks in protest, and a clear rope of liquid getting lost in the darkness that is the mat under his office chair. Tomorrow, Draco will know he’s treading on more of his own filth, joining the ranks that carpet spot where clients shake his hand and the floor spot where he invites them in…

He chances a glance upward. 11:23. Potter never leaves after one in the morning.

Time is running out. Draco loses control and his finger is on his cock again, while his other hand dives below, past his balls and perineum. He is close. So close. Potter is probably right behind the fireplace right now and this sight is about to greet him. It will mesmerize him, make sure that he'll not only come on Draco’s lips, like last time, the only time so far he’s made the count to three. He'll come inside where Draco asks him too, where his fingers are going...

His torso arches, exposing to the dim wand light that hole that is desperate to be filled, that must be so jealous of his cock and balls that have got all the attention. His one finger finds its way in while his palm wraps around the shaft. He must come now, he decides. His plan demands that, justifies that, for he must leave no pent-up lust for Potter to exploit. He will not lose it first like every other time. He'll take Potter’s cock…

Just like this. Make a squeeze and twist here and there between broad strokes. A push of his thumb against the crown, traced along its circumference. Potter’s got balls, Draco gives him that, and so he will play with them. Fondle them. Weigh them, rub their skin like apples to be picked and he will tease how low they sit before they react to his words, his administrations and they will draw up, at the same moment Draco gets on his knees, spreads his cheeks and demands to be taken—

_Fuck._

His come hits the neck of his cognac this time. Draco pumps it all out, then collapses on the his armchair and laughs. He’ll have to show Astoria the bottle tomorrow and mock her for missing out this one. She was outside the office bringing herself off that time. She’d left her favorite garter in Draco’s office and wanted it back. A Muggle-born client was waiting in her bed.

Speaking of Astoria. With effort Draco sits up—his bunched up trousers at his knees finally fell on the floor —smirks and retrieves her stack of lingerie from the bottom drawer that he’d taken off just for keeps. There’s an emerald number in the middle of the pile, a favorite of hers. He unfolds it, brandishes it with a fling and wipes dry the come that didn’t make it on the bottle, then re-folds it and shoves it back in place. The face she'll make when she puts it on next time will be priceless. A small payback, really, for the things he has to do to keep her big mouth shut, like keeping her secretary by rank and making her partner by pay, or to christen Potter with a nickname.

 _Heisenberg._ Yet another wizard to make it in the Muggle world and pretend it was his brains doing the job. Ask any child who has Flooed and they can tell you that position and momentum are mutually exclusive things, if they know what momentum is.

Uncertainty Principle? Bollocks and a crockful of them.

Like now, while Draco dabs spit on his finger and cleans his soft cock, he knows Potter is either traveling in full speed in the Floo network, or already here just behind the fireplace, ready to cross the brick wall that closed it off a century ago.

Of this there is no uncertainty. Draco is willing to bet his _faith_ on this.

No, it doesn’t matter that, last time, Potter finally let Draco worship his cock. It doesn’t matter that as Draco sucked and traced the vein along the length with his tongue, Potter played with his hair and whispered, “keep it safe for me” over and over again, then went on about souls and the wear and tear they could withstand, the sawdust they can afford to give away for someone’s keepsake before they become too ill and fragile, too prone to become what had resurrected Voldemort. It doesn’t matter that as Draco deep-throated Potter—that shut him up finally—he couldn’t taste the pre-come and instead feels water dripping on his arm, gliding down the bridge of his nose to find its way into his mouth.

Water that were strangely sweet. Water that never made it to the floor or carpet or mat. Water that, in the weeks that followed, bleached the serpent and skull on Draco’s forearm to nothing but a faint shadow.

The clock strikes twelve.

Draco waits. The _Prophet_ 's furled edge is losing its battle to gravity, exposing Potter's grim face sliver by sliver as the minutes takes by. Draco notices then, that Potter is mouthing something in the looping photo. _Leftie_ , he says. _I want to thank Leftie_.

The clock strikes one.

Draco swings his legs off his desk, pulls his trousers up and rubs his heels on where he spilled himself earlier. The silence, the stillness is stifling. He lets out a loud curse and hurls the soiled cognac bottle against a wall. The golden liquid rains as a Muggle phone book flies into his hands. He flips the pages to the category of tattoo artists and rips out the pages of those with friendly surnames, those who wouldn’t mind laying a fresh layer of ink on his Dark Mark.

With a charm, the phone book and it limps its way back to the bookshelf, remnants of the torn pages sticking out like untugged corners of a camisole and trips over a portfolio. On the cover is the small sticker "F". It was the one Astoria left on the carpet this morning.

Draco stares at it for a moment. A thought comes to him, tugs the corner of his lips. He  _Accios_  the portfolio to the desk and wets his quill.

 

> _Mr Fawley,_
> 
> _For your request, we would advise waiting until the Panama investigations are over. On a more urgent note, however, there is a new business opportunity I would like to bring to your attention. An old friend of my father—_
> 
>  

He jots down a random name from a torn phone book page.

 

> _—has a rather healthy appetite for antiques of the most obscure source. Given that you, my most valuable client, are the undisputed expert and connoisseur in this trade, I hope you don’t mind me owling you up. My friend will benefit much from the exquisite taste you'll bring to his collection and I see the potential of a long-lasting and extremely fruitful partnership. As your financial advisor, I strongly urge you to consider this opportunity. If you're interested, please send me an anonymous howler and you'll get two in return, one with the location to meet and the other, a time that is likely within the next week while my friend is in Britain. Be prepared to pack a few of your most prized possessions and take your crew with you. Twenty, I’d say, the more the merrier. My friend has a weakness for grand entrances and no one does those like you._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _D. @ SB_
> 
>  

He licks his quill, smirks and adds an afterthought:

 

> _PS. I wouldn't dream of offering your name to anyone less esteemed than this dear friend of mine._

 

He ties up the roll of parchment with a dead knot and places it in the OUT pouch for owl delivery when morning comes. He clears his desk afterwards, digs into the drawer and fishes out, in a fake portfolio under Astoria's lingerie, a piece of blank Muggle paper. He rolls the joint of his left wrist and pulls out the Muggle pen spello-taped under his desk.

Twenty, even at a poor yield of twenty-five percent, makes five. Five lives. The tattoo artist can add one for bonus. That should cause enough of a turbulence to even a weathered soul, enough to lure it back here.

Draco Malfoy will make a damn fine Horcrux. He just needs one Harry Potter to see it. He uncaps the pen with his teeth and begins to write with his left hand.

 

> _ATTN: DMLE, Head Auror Office_
> 
> _To whom it may concern ...._

 

 

_~Fin_


End file.
